by Leslie North
By the time the movie let out, it was after dark. They walked down the sidewalk in a pleasant silence, Omar feeling entranced by the events of the day. The movie had left him with some interesting things to ponder, one of the most potent being the realization that he’d felt relaxed all day.
When was the last time he could say that for himself? He’d never felt so at ease with anyone before—certainly not a lover—not even Anahita. Their entire day had passed in a delightful blur, leaving him wanting more time with Marian, more of her.
Her arm rubbed against his—their version of holding hands for the day. “Whatcha thinking about?”
“That movie.” He scuffed his heel against the cement sidewalk as they strolled. “I wish there had been subtitles. It really made me think.”
“I could tell there was some heavy stuff going on,” Marian remarked, the glinting streetlights highlighting the streaks of gold in her hair. “But I was mostly focusing on the sounds, and that impeccable 1960s makeup.”
Omar shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, those two guys were trying to save the rich man the whole time. He wanted to commit suicide.”
“So who was the beautiful lady?”
“His dead wife.” Omar cleared his throat. “She wanted him to move on. But he just wanted to die to be with her.”
Marian nodded as they strolled, her gaze on the ground. “Interesting.”
A long silence followed them, one that felt painful somehow. Omar wasn’t sure if the things on his mind were also on Marian’s.
“You know, it’s a well-timed movie choice,” she said, her voice breezy. “The man chooses to move on. Just like you’ve moved on from your past, too.”
Her words echoed inside his head, each repetition making him feel queasy. She nudged him after a moment, smiling up at him.
“Right?”
Omar swallowed a knot in his throat. Moving on wasn’t in the plans, not this soon, not so fast. Guilt flooded him, made his knees wobble for a moment, and he inhaled sharply, trying to regain the lighthearted mood from only moments ago.
“I don’t know.” He fished out his phone, messaging his driver to meet them. The day had already come to a natural close—and this was more of a sign than ever that he needed to retreat. He’d gone too far. He at least needed the solitude to think about what he was doing—what he was feeling. Nothing made sense suddenly. Hearing the truth from her lips felt like an unexpected punch in the gut.
“Are you calling the driver?” Marian looked a little crestfallen.
“I did.” He forced a smile. “It’s getting late, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” She looked around, gnawing at the inside of her lip. “We did accomplish a lot from the list.”
“Over ninety percent of it in one day, which is more touristy things than I’ve done in my entire life.”
A smile flickered on her face, as the car pulled into a side alley in front of them. They walked there quietly, a heaviness between them. All your fault. He’d ruined the good vibes in one fell swoop, but what else could he do? A simmering mood encroached quickly, and he needed the alone time to figure it out.
Inside the car, Marian nestled up to him. He slung his arm around her shoulders, but didn’t press further.
“So.” She tilted her head back to look at him, her brown eyes illuminated by the passing lights of downtown. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else on the agenda?”
He smiled but couldn’t find the words to respond.
“The hidden agenda?” She poked his side, waiting for a response. “Any agenda at all?”
He feigned tiredness, looking over at her with a regretful smile. “I don’t think we should pursue the hidden agenda tonight. I need to be up early tomorrow.”
Her face fell, which lashed at him. “Oh. Well, that’s fine.” She pulled away a little, turning to look out the window. “What’s going on tomorrow?”
“I have a few family obligations,” he said, which wasn’t a lie. Every Sunday he met with his brothers and father and other relations for lunch. Annabelle would be there, which he remembered only after the words had left his mouth. Marian could find out about the Sunday family meet-up easily enough. But wouldn’t it be nice to bring her along?
His stomach twisted violently. He needed to process this conflict alone.
“Well, thanks for the great day.” She patted his knee like a mother would to a small child.
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing her knee. He didn’t want this to be the end of their day, but it had to be. “I had a great time.”
Her eyes were full of doubt as she looked at him, his own confusion reflected back to him.
11
Marian woke up on Sunday and pouted. It wasn’t terribly mature of her, but she needed it. She ordered an extra-large mimosa and pancakes from room service—Part of my self-care routine, right?—and drew a bath in the hot tub so she could pout some more.
Omar’s weird mood at the tail end of their fabulous day together left a bitter taste in her mouth, one that tasted and smelled exactly of rejection. Why does he do this? She wanted to shake her fists at the sky and scream it from the mountains. On the one hand, he felt like a natural companion—someone who could even be a partner someday. Like a real-life romantic equal. But then shit like this flared up, reminding her of the sorry truth.
Omar lived in Parsabad, he would never be her partner, and his wife was the ghost elephant in the room who just wouldn’t go away.
With those factors operating against her, what was she even hoping for? Omar had to be a work colleague and nothing more. And that needed to start today.
Marian took the pancakes and mimosa into the bathroom, leaving her phone on silent in the bedroom. Part of her decision to pout and process involved not texting Omar at all and masturbating at least once, but not to his memory. Or maybe only slightly to his memory. Because the man was a sex god, and she’d probably never find his equal again in life.
Ugh. Why does he have to be so hot and good? She slipped into the warm water, pouting more, and then carefully reached for her pancakes. She leaned against the tub wall, balancing the plate along the edge, and shoveled small squares into her mouth while she angrily studied the tiles of the bathroom floor.
It just didn’t make sense. She’d brought up his wife in an attempt to make that final, glaringly obvious link. He was moving on, which was evident by the way in which they hung out together. Or wasn’t it?
She sighed, stuffing another syrupy stack of squares into her mouth. These were almost better than back home, which seemed illegal somehow. How could Parsabad do American pancakes better than a New York diner?
They do men better, too. Except maybe they didn’t. She’d found the one professional and personal equal, and he just happened to still be in love with someone else. Not that she could blame him. But damn, the mixed signals were infuriating. She’d thought that their sex, at least, had been a strong enough indicator of…something.
She took a sip of the mimosa and then took a gulp. She’d be ordering plenty of these today, and probably lying in bed a lot too. Why did this feel like breaking up? She’d known Omar for less than a week, and yet it felt like they were ending a months-long courtship.
Sex had probably made things muddy and awkward. It always did—as a thirty-two-year-old, she should know this by now. Age didn’t matter when dealing with men. It was always confusing and just this side of a shit show, no matter how mature, no matter what part of the world.
“Ugh.” Marian finished the last of her pancakes and set the plate on the tiled floor. Then she sank back, letting the warm rush of water overtake her, basking in the churn of the currents.
A few hours later, she was awoken from a nap by the buzzing of her phone. She’d collapsed onto her bed after her skin went wrinkly in the tub, and she must have passed out soon after. She scrambled to find the phone on the bedspread. Only a few shafts of light peeked through the heavy curtains she’d left drawn from the night
before.
When she found the phone, she sighed, turning it over tensely. She’d wanted to disconnect today, but already she was being a slave to her device.
Layla. Three missed calls.
Marian furrowed a brow, swiping her phone open. Three missed calls and one urgent text saying “CALL ME ASAP.” Marian called Layla and leaned back onto the bed, yawning.
“Jesus, where have you been?” Layla sounded rushed. Cars honked in the background.
“I just woke up from a nap.” Her gaze traveled to the nightstand. Six thirty p.m. “It’s been a rough Sunday.”
“Well, listen. I have some news.” Layla’s breath sounded short, like maybe she was speed walking across Manhattan. “I’ve been keeping tabs on National Oil since we last talked, and there has been a suspicious recent arrest on their premises.”
Marian furrowed a brow. “Okay.”
“Does the name Kelly Gunther ring a bell?”
“Oh God.” Marian’s stomach sunk. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Yeah. That asshole was taken off their property Friday afternoon. Some of the reports I found mention what seems to be corporate secret leaking.”
“How do you find this stuff out?”
“I’m an investigator with security clearance,” Layla said, sounding justifiably haughty. “This is my job.”
“Well fuck.” Marian pressed a hand to her forehead. Kelly heading for National Oil after being fired from Almasi-Thomas didn’t bode well. There were no good reasons he would show up there, either. Maybe this interference was why National Oil hadn’t called with a decision on Friday. Maybe he’d made an even bigger ass of himself and made National hesitant to move forward. “Anything else I should know about?”
“I looked up Kelly’s recent travels, and it looks like he’s probably still right under your nose, wreaking havoc. He was released by the police yesterday.”
Marian’s chest tightened, and alarm bells went off. This had to be handled—immediately. If only to find out what Kelly was intending to do while in Parsabad. He should have left the country after being fired. But this move was probably him giving the middle finger to Almasi-Thomas.
“If he ruins this for us…” Marian didn’t even want to finish the sentence. “Selling out” wouldn’t even begin to cover it. Best case scenario, Kelly’s actions would make National Oil question Almasi-Thomas’s operations. He could leak all the sensitive details of their business to National Oil, completely derailing the progress they’d made. Worst case, National would pull out altogether and blackball Almasi-Thomas in the region.
“Well, now you know, and I’m positive you’ll do exactly what you need to do.” Layla made a kissy noise through the phone. “But I gotta run. Talk to you later!”
The line went dead, and Marian stared at her bedspread in disbelief. The pit in her stomach had morphed into a black hole. And the only thing that might make it better was immediate action of some sort.
Marian nibbled on her lip as she toyed with the idea of calling Omar. It had been her one rule for the day—no contact—but this? This was different. This was business. This was urgent. And it would look bad if she waited until business as usual the next day to bring it up.
She swiped to their message thread and shot off a new text. “Hey, you around? Call me ASAP.”
The message showed as “Delivered” and then “Read” within seconds. Good old Omar with his phone always in hand. She gnawed at the inside of her lip, waiting for the phone to ring.
But it didn’t. She considered sending another text, but saying what? “Urgent urgent business not about your penis, please answer”?
Marian switched to the thread with Annabelle, opting for a lighthearted check-in. “Hey girl. How was your Sunday?”
Annabelle responded a moment later with a photo. It was her and Imaad smiling brightly in the foreground, with a slew of Imaad’s family members around a table in the middle and background, each in various states of conversation or reaction. A surprise selfie around the Parsian table. Marian smiled, zooming in to see if she could spot Omar.
There he was—toward the back. His face sullen and clouded. She huffed.
“Was that the weekly lunch you’re always telling me about? Omar looks like he’s having a blast.”
Annabelle’s response was quick. “Yeah, he was a grouch today. Left a few hours ago.”
Marian reread her words a few times, an idea burbling to life. If all else failed, maybe she could swing by Omar’s house to let him know about the turn of events. That way, they could start planning immediately.
“Did he go home?” Marian frowned after she sent the text, feeling a little like a stalker.
“Pretty sure. He left with Zahir.”
Marian tapped the edge of her phone as she thought. Just go for it.
“Weird question, but could you pass me his address? Something urgent came up with the deal today, and I need to talk to him ASAP.”
Annabelle sent over his address a moment later, which showed him to live just a few blocks from the hotel. Perfect. If he didn’t call or text soon, she could swing by and just see if he was around. The information from Layla warranted a drop-in, at least…and seeing him again wouldn’t hurt.
Even though you swore to keep it professional twenty minutes ago. She rolled off the bed, searching for a set of clean, casual clothes. The truth tugged at her as she dressed.
She wanted Omar in a way she could barely even articulate. And if a Sunday business call was all she could get with him…well, she’d take it.
12
Omar sat on his couch, running his thumb over the rim of his whiskey glass. Zahir stood at the bar by the bay windows, filling his own glass for the second time.
“Why do I feel like there’s still something you haven’t told me?” Zahir looked back at him, one dark brow arched accusingly.
Omar sighed. He’d asked Zahir to come back to his penthouse to discuss some matters, but still hadn’t made it to the most pressing issue: Marian.
“Because I haven’t told you yet.” Omar set his glass down and then ran his hands through his hair. He’d wanted his older brother here specifically for his wisdom, even though Zahir had never had a serious relationship in his entire life. Still, he trusted Zahir to offer clarity. Or at least a push in the right direction.
“Well, tell me then.” Zahir rejoined him on the couch, crossing an ankle over his knee. He sipped at the whiskey. “Or do I have to beat it out of you?”
“I think I’m falling for Marian.” The words tumbled out of Omar’s mouth, and he clammed up after he’d said them, afraid to meet his brother’s gaze.
Silence settled as his brother nodded slowly, clearly mulling over the admission. “Great. And?”
Omar took a deep breath, preparing himself to speak the words. “I just never planned on falling in love. With anyone. I wanted it to be Anahita and that was it. It doesn’t seem fair to her to move on.”
“To…Anahita?” Zahir creased his brow.
Omar nodded. “Why should I move on if she can’t?”
Zahir blinked, studying him. “But you’ve been out with women…”
“One-night stands,” Omar said, waving his hand in the air. “That’s all. They don’t mean anything.”
“But Marian does.”
Omar nodded glumly, reaching for his tumbler. “Yeah. She does.”
Zahir tapped his glass, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you were the problem solver of the family.”
“This is one problem I can’t figure out,” Omar said, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m too close to it. All I know is that when I’m around Marian, I feel great. But then the guilt comes crashing down, and I want to die. Because I know that by all rights, I should still be with Anahita, and we’d have children by now, and I wouldn’t even take a second look at Marian.”
“But that’s not what life is, brother,” Zahir said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Omar deflated a little. “That’s not how it turned out.
”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Confront what life is giving you.” Zahir slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re living in the past. It’s time to move on. Anahita would have wanted that.”
“She wanted to be alive and to be with me,” Omar said softly. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to be with someone else.”
His words lingered in the air, drifting strangely between them. They sounded absurd as he thought about them, but this was the personal hell he’d created for himself since her death.
“Obviously, being with you was the first plan.” Zahir’s voice was soft, compassionate. “But you can’t be married to a ghost. You can’t build a life with someone who isn’t here. She never wanted you to suffer for the rest of your life. But the more important question is what do you want, in the life you’re living now?”
Omar rubbed at his face. Zahir made sense—these were the words he’d needed to hear for too long. Far too long.
“I never realized you felt this way, brother,” Zahir said, squeezing his shoulder. “I just thought you had…moved on.”
Omar swallowed a knot in his throat. It didn’t help that he tortured himself with his wife’s memory by keeping her pictures all over the house and rereading her letters to him regularly. Maybe you should stop doing those things.
“Yeah, well, I guess I just wanted everyone to think I was fine.” Omar squeezed his hands together, as if it might relieve some of the pressure inside him. And even now, in the midst of mourning Anahita, he craved Marian. So badly that he almost didn’t know how to handle it.
